


Smoke Trail

by Tuume



Series: Flying High [2]
Category: The Owl House (Cartoon)
Genre: Gen, Magic, Pyromania, Sports, Training
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-29
Updated: 2020-10-29
Packaged: 2021-03-09 04:27:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 717
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27258679
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tuume/pseuds/Tuume
Summary: The Boiling Isles aren't a place for those unwilling to claw to the top. Boscha understands that.
Series: Flying High [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1990252
Kudos: 10





	Smoke Trail

**Author's Note:**

> This is my second entry for The Owl House. Boscha is an interesting character to me. She's clearly mean, but has insecurities. Her actions are barbaric, but she doesn't seem to be dim or unmotivated. She's skilled in grudgby and fire magic in particular, so I wanted to combine those into a piece that exemplifies those talents. The fire fixation was my own touch. Please leave a review and critique!

_You may be hated, so long as you are feared._

Even now, that was Boscha’s truth. Respect was good, but fear added insurance. Both of those were the result of accumulating power. In the Boiling Isles, power was all that mattered. To deny this truth was to fall, to die, to fail. And if there was anything Boscha despised, it was failure.

Night was soon to be upon the Boiling Isles. She only had enough sunlight for one last maneuver. The goal stood across from her at the field’s end, like a judgmental sentry.

Sweat trickled from Boscha’s brow, sliding down into her eyes, the top one getting the brunt. She blinked, eyelids fluttering defiantly. Whatever wasn’t caught in her lashes was licked up when it dripped below her nose. Her Grudgby uniform was soaked through; despite the warm air, it was cool on her flesh. She didn’t care. This was nothing new.

Rolling it between her hands, the ball was a familiar weight. The broom lying over her foot was new. Boscha bounced the neck over the tip of her foot, the thud of the wood knocking against her shoes matching her heartbeat. What she was doing, no referee would allow, not even with her credibility on the field. But a new move was a new move. Anything she did during practice she could adapt for practical purposes on the field.

Case in point…

Careful not to tap it, Boscha ran her fingertips over the fire glyph she had imprinted on the tough leather. It was like learning the way to make a new potion, or trying out a new game strategy. It may hurt, but the struggle, the pain makes you stronger. She’d never given much thought as to how the human had learned to do magic, but the game had given her incentive to find out. Being known as a scroll obsessed teenager had its advantages. Some discreet stalking and creative use of the zoom had gotten her what she’d wanted.

Plus, some of what she hadn’t. She gagged, remembering the blatant tomato face Amity sported. That was an issue for another time. Boscha tucked the ball under an arm and inhaled. She held it, ribcage thudding, then gave a long exhale.

_Time for work._

In a swift motion, Boscha kicks up the broom, and grips it as she commands it to _go_. The young witch is yanked off her feet, cutting across the grudgby field in a horizontal charge. Wind streaks past her, her sweat chilling in the setting sun as she angles herself upward.

She’s midfield by the time she pulls herself on top of the broom. Knees bent, leaning into the wind, Boscha slaps the glyph. The grudgby ball ignites against the encroaching darkness, a spherical torchlight.

_The burn… So good…_

She’s three-quarters there. Easy as breathing, Boscha tosses the ball up and forward, then speeds forward. She rears back, the broom rocketing up, and for one awful, sick, glorious moment she’s suspended in midair. Then, she grabs the handle, arms burning, stomach muscles clenching as she swings herself about it. The arc of her spin puts her feet to the grudgby ball, slamming it home through the goal.

One foot planted against the still broom handle, Boscha pumps the fist not grasping the broom in jubilation. She howls triumphantly as her ball soars in the black night like an orange comet. Upon landing, it erupts in an explosion that lights a portion of the space outside the field and sputters out, curdling smoke dissipating invisibly in the night.

_Amity was half right. Competition weeds out the weak, strengthens the survivors. Power and skill are what make or break you. I don’t need to bully that weak half-a-witch or that lame human. I just need to excel, to BURN!_

Boscha belts out one last roar into the night. She inhales. Exhales. The muscles of her upper body loose, thought the burn of exertion still persists. She wipes away the sweat in between her eyes, sweeps back her hair, loosened from its bun during the maneuver. Tipping back, Boscha begins to descend to her duffel bag, a chilled water waiting. She’d earned it. Maybe a bit more as well.

She smirked. _Maybe I’ll swing by the Night Market on my way home._


End file.
